


heaven help him, when he falls

by SexyGayOrc



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Knives, Multi, Napoleon!Whump, OT3, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:02:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5364119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SexyGayOrc/pseuds/SexyGayOrc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon is captured when breaking into someone's house. Suffice to say, they aren't too thrilled about this, and do all the villainous torture they can to make him talk. Thankfully he has some people on the way to provide a bit of assistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heaven help him, when he falls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZandakarShibleski (SpaceSexual)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceSexual/gifts).



> A million thanks to my wife, my boo, my muse, the incredible SpaceSexual. Without you I would get nothing written. Title comes from the song Smooth Operator by Sade, which is basically my Napoleon Solo theme song. My prompt for this was "Solo getting the shit beat out of him for whatever reason, and Illya gets him back like the Russian terminator he is" because I felt like writing some nice angst. I tried to keep the head injury as accurate as I could, but I've only ever passed out, so I wouldn't really know personally.

Napoleon slowly made his way down the dark hallway. The study should be the last door on the left. He crept towards it, not wanting to hurry and stomp around. If he could completely avoid everyone’s attention this job will be the easiest he’s had to deal with in months. He placed a soft hand on the door and firm one on the handle. He turned it painfully slowly, making sure not to let out a single squeak or scratch. Breaking into private residences were always a bit more stressful than even facilities with large security teams. A person’s home held too many variables. While people had their routines, they were at ease enough to break them without a moment’s thought. Every other day of the year they could go to sleep at 9 o’clock sharp, but tonight could be the night they wanted to stay up, finish that novel that’s been sitting on their desk for weeks. There was also the fact that people took invasions of the home much more personally than invasions of a public facility. People generally didn’t like it when some stranger lurked around just feet from where they and their sleeping wives were. Because of that, the worst backlash Solo has ever experienced has always been from home invasions. The only exception was the Vinciguerra Affair, and that was a bit of a special occasion, so to speak. He slipped into the room and closed the door the same way he opened it. Once inside he looked around. It was a nice room, if not a bit plain. Dark wood decorated everything, so Napoleon still liked it well enough. He started to look around, and finally found the safe hidden in a false side of the large mahogany desk that was the centerpiece of the room. He placed the false panel on the floor and got out his tools. It was a smaller safe, mostly meant for documents or small items of jewelry. He always loved the calm a group of tumblers could gift him. The singular focus he had to keep while cracking a safe, or picking locks, or anything of the like was refreshing to him. So few things held his attention in such a fulfilling way. The safe opened for him easily. Napoleon was shifting through the contents when suddenly the door swung open. He froze and turned to look when he heard the telltale click of a gun’s safety. Standing in the door was a large man, probably just an inch shorter than Illya, with an intimidating bulk to him. Muscle and fat alike, a small gut hanging over the front of his pants. He held a large pistol pointed unwaveringly at Napoleon’s face.

Napoleon, despite that, smiled glowingly up at him. “Hello.” He greeted genially. The man then very rudely took two strides up to Solo and pistol whipped him. Right before Solo lost himself in the darkness swallowing up his vision, he could only wonder what gave him away.

\--------------------

Napoleon came back to himself slowly, unconsciousness clinging to him like cobwebs. He blinked and took in his surroundings. Oddly enough, he looked to be in a wine cellar, tied to a chair in the center of a large open space amid the rows of bottles. This was a first. In front of his chair was a small stool. He was alone, though Napoleon knew better than to expect that to keep constant. He waited for about five minutes, blinking hard and shaking his head a bit, trying to ward off the after-effects of getting clubbed in the head, when he heard the sound of someone padding down a staircase. The footfalls then trailed through the maze of shelves, finally rounding a corner to his left and a man appeared. He was slender and tall, but ugly. He was one of those men who were obviously handsome as young men, but aged so poorly they could now only be called ugly, even by the nicest of people. He was also the mark. Solo recognized him from the series of photos Waverley had in the file for this mission. He was a surprisingly controlled man for someone who exported and imported the kinds of drugs he did. He didn’t even cheat on his wife, the bastard. Solo always appreciated when someone broke a mold, but that didn’t mean a lack of blackmail material wasn’t terribly inconvenient. Hence the reason Solo broke into his house instead of just asking for what he wanted to know.

“Who are you?” The man, Mr. Berger, asked. He was French, almost offensively so given this extensive wine cellar. Or perhaps he just kept all this down here to hide his kidnap victims. Solo would have to ask if he had time.

Solo clicked his tongue, shaking his head once. “Now, we both know that wasn’t going to work. If you must call me something, why not…” He made a considering face, then grinned. “What about Kirk? Easy enough to remember.” Mr. Berger slapped him for that. Solo flexed his jaw. Berger had a good arm. That was going to bruise.

“Very well, Mr. Kirk. Out of common decency, I am going to ask you something. Will you disclose anything about who sent you, or will we have to be unpleasant towards one another?” Solo did appreciate that. In his past life, Napoleon might have even talked. Not much loyalty to a nameless man who hired you to steal from another. Now, however, Napoleon was quite fond of those he worked with, despite himself, and wouldn’t talk even if they strapped him to another electric chair. Damn that pesky sentiment, it will be the ruin of him, or at least the ruin of his face. He would so like to avoid facial scarring if at all possible. Men like this were often quite rude when it came to marking people up.

Solo sighed. “Unfortunately, we will have to be unpleasant. I’m quite stubborn about that, I’m afraid.” He settled back into the chair he was tied to, making a show of getting comfortable.

Berger hummed an understanding noise. “I see.” He pulled a small radio out of his pocket, bringing it up to his mouth, pressing the talk button. “Amable, your presence is needed.” He replaced the radio.

Solo chuckled. “Are you telling me that brute that took me down earlier is called Amable? I’m assuming that’s who you're calling down to get me to talk. Unless you have multiple hulking figures patrolling your private residence, in which case bravo for the paranoia. It’s well placed.”

Berger, despite himself, let a crooked smile slip onto his face. “In another life, Mr. Kirk, I feel as if we might have been friends. I do appreciate a sense of humor. And yes. Amable was the one who found you. He is persuasive in his own way, though I do personally find his methods unsavory.”

“I appreciate the sentiment. Do you often have problems with taste, Mr. Berger? I would think a man in your line of work would have at least learned to stomach the more bitter parts of situations such as this.”

Berger tilted his head in agreement. “I can tolerate it if I must, but since it is not required in this instance, I hope you don’t take offense at me leaving.”

Solo shrugged good-naturedly. “None at all. I’m not much one for it either. My skill set is not one of violence, as you’ve seen. I hope you also know none of this was personal. Just a job.”

Berger nodded. “I appreciate that. Goodbye, Mr. Kirk.” With that he turned and strode out, leaving Napoleon to wait for sweet Amable to come lumbering in from wherever he was. Perhaps he was terrifying neighborhood children or harassing the elderly. This evening just went from perfectly fine to possibly awful. Who knew what Brutus was going to pull out of his bag of tricks. Hopefully it wasn’t a pair of pliers. That never bodes well. As if summoned by Napoleon’s thoughts, heavy clomping steps made their way down the stairs and towards Solo. He sighed, but plastered a nice smile on his face when Amable came to stand in front of him. The large man was holding a toolbox, to Solo’s chagrin, and took a seat on the stool. He settled the box on the floor and then clasped his hands together, resting his forearms on his knees, leaning toward Solo.

“Hello again, my new friend. I just have to ask before you get started, must we muddy our already turbulent acquaintanceship with this? Why not just let me go? I have none of what I was sent to retrieve, and you have done nothing terrible to me as of yet. Why don’t we just part ways and wash our hands of this whole situation? I even promise to not come back.” Napoleon asked in his most genuine tone.

Amable shook his head. “No. I will do as was asked of me. This will be unpleasant for you.” He unlatched the lid of his toolbox and flipped it open.

Napoleon sighed, his face falling. “Yes, that seems to be the theme of this evening.” He muttered to himself, watching Amable pick out a drop point blade, probably a Frost. “There’s no need for that.” He attempted, before the blade was pointed at his left thigh. His mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked. He was getting the feeling that talking might only earn him more punishment. He wrapped his hands around the rope tying him to the chair, bracing himself. He leaned his head back, looking to the ceiling, not wanting to anticipate where and when the first slice will be.

“No.” Amable grunted, and sunk the blade into Solo’s thigh in a flash. “Look at me.” Napoleon yelled a bit. A fine tremble was now running over his body, and he looked back to Amable, the brute. He didn’t look pleased, or angry, or anything really. His face was serious but otherwise blank. Amable nodded and removed the blade, pulling another, smaller shout from Solo. “Who sent you?” Solo just stared at him, willing his face into impassivity. Amable shifted his seat closer to Napoleon and placed the tip of the blade high on Solo’s thigh, putting just enough pressure to have it break through the material of his pants and about half a centimeter into the flesh underneath. He looked up at Solo, who returned his gaze, and dragged the blade down, slicing a clean line to just above his knee. Napoleon’s breathing got heavy and shaky, but he didn’t cry out this time, ready for it. Cuts always burned, but such sharp knives were deceiving. They would sink into skin like into hot butter, and would barely seem to do anything, until you tried to even twitch once the damage was done. Already the long line on Solo’s leg burned like he laid the entire thing out on a skillet, and he tried his best to keep still without clenching anything. Both wounds demanded attention, sending sparks out and pushing pain down deep to his bones. Blood ran slick and warm down his limb, and through all of it he just stared at Amable. The large man wiped the blade off on Solo’s now ruined slacks, and placed it back in the box. Instead he pulled out what looked to be a leather glove, but the padding was all wrong for just an ordinary glove. The knuckles were packed with something, and Solo felt as if he’d have more than enough time to decipher what it was while it more than likely made repeated contact with his face and body. “I will stop when you tell me what I want to know.” Amable informed him, as if to let Solo know this was somehow his fault. If he just gave up his employer he would get to go home unbruised and unfilleted, for the most part. It was his choice, Amable’s actions were just a result of that. Still, Solo looked back silently, a small smile creasing one side of his mouth. He was a patient man, maybe he could outlast this giant till another one showed up. Illya and Gaby would notice him not getting back when he should have, and would more than likely come for him. They knew where he was, and Solo was fairly sure he was still somewhere on the property, so it was pretty much just a waiting game at this point. Berger probably knew this, and has since fled along with anything even remotely useful to Solo’s mission. Who knew what Big Boy here was thinking, staying behind for whoever constituted Solo’s backup. Perhaps he thought he could take them. That was a mistake. As was this whole exercise. Napoleon wasn’t going to talk, and despite everything about him Amable didn’t seem quite the sadist type, so it seemed this whole situation was largely meaningless. Not to say it still wasn’t painful and destructive, just meaningless.

Amable got up from the stool, moving it out of the way, before circling Napoleon slowly. He pulled on the glove and settled it on his hand, flexing his fingers to make sure it was on properly. Napoleon took a deep breath and waited, knowing what was probably about to happen. Amable’s free hand, the one not covered, grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back, before a swift punch was delivered to his stomach.Solo wheezed, feeling his diaphragm spasm and all the air leave his lungs. His head angled back as it was made it even more difficult for him to recover from the blow. He struggled to draw a full breath as Amable let go of his hair and moved to stand in front of him. He looked up at him. Amable swung his free hand and slapped Solo across the face, then did it again, before bringing his covered hand up and slapping him with that as well. It must be lead or some such, because Solo was fairly certain a bone cracked. His right jaw pulsed where Amable’s hand impacted, blood rushing to the injury. Solo was thrown off kilter, his vision swimming. Amable then started a measured barrage of hits, with his normal and armored hand both.  Most of them hit Solo’s arms, or chest, but a few struck across his face. There was a pause, and Solo panted, trying to catch his breath. In a final move Amable clubbed Napoleon hard on the side of the head, letting the glove pick up momentum in a sweeping arch, before letting it slam into Solo’s skull. Napoleon would have fallen over if not for Amable scruffing the back of Solo’s shirt and catching him as he rocked sideways. The impact echoed a muffled thump through the cellar, and Solo finally let out a noise, pathetic and small, almost sounding confused, or surprised. He couldn’t place himself. Up down, left right, it all mashed together, his head too sluggish to be able to differentiate. His brain felt like it must have rattled in his head, the impact still singing through the bone. Napoleon’s mouth fell open and he blinked, trying to recover from the debilitating hit. Distantly he heard Amable speak, until the man, surprisingly gently, places a finger under his chin and tilted his head up, forcing what little eye contact Solo could manage.

“Tell me.” His words made it through finally and Solo found them softly spoken, like Amable wanted this to stop almost as much as him. There was no way that was true, however, given that Solo was fairly sure this monster of a man just managed to give him a concussion single-handed. Literally.

“No.” Napoleon managed to slur out quietly, his vision clearing a bit but not by much.

Amable sighed. “I appreciate your loyalty, and regret we must continue on like this, but I need to know all I can from you.” He dropped his hand from Solo’s chin and bent down, pulling the glove off and placing it back in his little box of horrors. Good, if Napoleon could still think up awful jokes like that then his brain mustn’t be pulp quite yet. That ringing sound wasn’t a good sign, though. Unbenounced to Solo, who was looking around lazily, not having the drive to focus on the man next to him, more preoccupied with clearing the last of the fog from his mind, Amable pulled out another knife, different from the last. This blade had a spear point, fairly long, with double serrated edges. Amable hooked the tip in the shoulder of Solo’s dark shirt, his jacket he was wearing earlier long discarded. He drew the blade down, cutting the sleeve open as cleanly as the top of Solo’s left thigh still was. He tugged the cloth away, cutting again to remove the sleeve from the shirt entirely, so Solo’s arm was bare where it curved to its binding point on the back of Solo’s chair. He braced the hand not holding his knife on the inside of Solo’s elbow, pulling slightly to have it positioned out and easier to access without untying Solo. Solo was rolling his head around, looking lost. Amable laid the length of one of the blade’s edges on Solo’s bicep and _pressed_. Solo twitched and gasped, caught off guard and unable to stifle his natural responses. Amable kept at that for a while, making shallow and moderately deep cuts all down the length of Solo’s arm, the serrated blade weaving fire through the skin. Solo took to whimpering, squirming and jerking away whenever Amable started new cuts. While that was happening Solo was also slowly shifting his right foot. He was starting to wade through the fog blanketing his mind, and felt, when he twitched at the first slice on his arm, that the bond on his right foot was slightly loose, either because the knot or rope itself was failing. One of the many reasons you should always use metal bonds, Solo thought flippantly. He allowed Amable to keep mangling his arm, cutting his skin to ribbons, so he wouldn’t notice as Solo worked his foot free. He finally felt the rope give, sipping off his ankle. He looked up at Amable, doing his best to focus, and lashed out, kicking hard. He managed to get the man’s knee, and he stumbled back, dropping his knife. Immediately Napoleon tries to get his other foot free, but before he could get anything else done Amable came back and slugged him, smashing into the temple on the same side as his earlier blow. Napoleon went limp, stupefied, and his chair succeeded in tipping over this time. Amable huffed and dragged a hand down his face, looking at Solo on the floor. He wasn’t unconscious, surprisingly. Or at least not fully. Solo was slumped over, still bound to his chair, and his eyes were hooded but still open, completely unfocused as he gazed at the ground near his head. He was breathing shakily, more than likely too injured to really feel the full extent of the pain coursing through his body. Amable sighed and approached Solo, pausing a moment when he came up to him to make sure the man wasn’t going to try anything else. It became apparent very quickly that Solo was down for the count, the fight beaten out of him twice over. Amable reached down and took hold of the chair, setting it back on its feet. Solo’s head hung limply, and for a second Amable thought he was out. He braced his hands on either side of Solo’s jaw, gently tilting his head back, cradling his face between his hands. Napoleon blinked slowly at him, not seeming to see him. Amable made an angry noise. It was quite hard to get information out of a limpet.

“If you can hear me, try and say something.” Amable stated blandly. He needed to see if there was still a potential here, or if it was time to cut losses.

Solo could think of nothing but the expansion of his own chest when he breathed. Everything else slipped away after just a moment of thinking about it. He couldn’t remember where he was, or where Gaby and Illya were. His vision swam, and from one moment to the next it felt like he was moving, being lifted or rolled around. He couldn’t quite tell where the floor was, and couldn’t understand why his arms were useless. He tried to move them but they didn’t even twitch from where they seemed bolted down. Something touched his face, and he became aware of a change in light. He felt panicked. What was going on? He heard something and couldn’t tell what it was. Something tapped the side of his face and he made a wounded noise in response, trying to get away from it.

When Solo failed to respond Amable had tapped the side of his face, trying to garner his focus. The man just made a low moaning sound, afraid, and tried to shift away. Amable sighed. He might have done too much damage. Solo would be useless now. He carefully placed Solo’s head back down. He reached to the floor and snatched his knife up, wiping it off on his shirt. He placed it back in the toolbox before his head snapped up. There was someone else in the room with them. He grabbed a gun from the box before slowly straightening. He looked around, not seeing anything in the shadows creeping around the shelves. He looked back to Solo, who was right where he left him, if not a bit agitated. He kept shifting, and his breathing had picked up. He looked to be panicking slightly, though unable to do anything about it given the fact he was still tied down, and much too weak. Amable turned away and started to walk toward the wine racks. It was quite dark there, and Amable had to squint while his eyes adjusted from the relatively bright space of the area he’d left Solo in. He kept scanning the area, finding no one, but positive he heard something just a moment ago. The scuff of a shoe on the stone floor. As he rounded another row something loomed up behind him, splitting from the darkness that nestled close to the walls of the cellar. Hands shot out and seized his head. He dropped his gun, which clattered to the floor with a sharp metallic noise, and grabbed at them. There was a brief scuffle before his head suddenly snapped to the right. He went limp and was dropped to the floor quickly.

Illya took a step forward and regarded the man that had held Solo hostage. He would have been a good equal in a fight, if he had ever been able to catch Illya. Now that that was settled Illya turned his attention to Napoleon, who was in the center of this large room. He quickly strode to the open space and right up to Solo. He frowned. Napoleon was sitting in the chair, stance worryingly loose, with wounds on his arm and leg. He kneeled down and brought a hand up to Napoleon’s face.

“Cowboy?” He asked quietly, seeing if maybe he was asleep or some such. Solo twitched slightly, but it seemed like the man couldn’t quite lift his own head up. He carefully placed his hand on Solo’s jaw and raised it up. What he saw now only served to worry him further. Napoleon’s eyes were glazed over badly, and his breathing seemed to be pretty shallow. Illya needed to get him out of here and to a doctor. It was just now he noticed the large bruise forming on the left side of Solo’s head, mostly hidden by his dark hair. That must be what’s causing this. “Cowboy?” He asked again, and Napoleon’s eyes flicked toward him but still only seemed focused over his left shoulder. “Napoleon.” He stated softly, and finally Solo’s eyes went to his face. They shuddered slightly, never quite being able to look at one thing for too long, but Illya almost smiled at this improvement. Shushing Solo when he made a small sound at the back of his throat. “I am going to remove your restraints.” He took his hand away, unhappy Solo’s head just hung limp again, and moved behind him. The wounds on his arm were numerous, but none seemed very deep. Hopefully there would be no muscle or nerve damage. Solo would just have to live with a few more scars. Some were still bleeding weakly, but they all seemed to be clotting properly. Illya quickly undid the restraints with the small knife he kept strapped to his ankle.

Whatever had been touching Napoleon’s face and pouring light into his eyes left him. The light was gone and the noises stopped. He still felt panicked, however. Why couldn’t he move, why couldn’t he see past this blurring film on his eyes, where was he, where was everyone else? He struggled as best he could, but found his feeble attempts just served to drain what little energy he had. He wanted nothing more than to cry out in confusion and fear, but found even his vocal cords disobeying him. He heard a loud noise, something metal hitting stone, and tensed. He found that this was a mistake when pain lanced up from his leg like an electric current. He was so lost. Lost in whatever was trapping him in the very small space at just the front of his consciousness. The contents of his mind, of this situation, were a mystery to him. He felt as if he was confined in a cell; just enough space to realize something was being withheld from you. He felt himself spooling out, all the fight, all the panic pulled from him by this sucking fatigue. It was unnatural, it had to be. What in nature could cause him to feel like a beaten ragdoll, thrown down and forgotten by something crueler than any child could ever hope to be? There was a small touch on his cheek and he regarded that knowledge indifferently. A noise accompanied the touch and that actually got his attention, causing him to jerk a bit and wish he could look up and towards it, but he was so _tired_. He knew that noise. It was familiar. If only he could fight past this viscous wall separating himself from real awareness he could place it, make sense of it. Light once again increased and he tried his best to keep his eyes open and try to focus on something. It didn’t really work, his eyes flat out refusing to concentrate. The noise happened again and this time he used everything he had to decipher it, straining his eyes towards where he think it came from. There was a golden blur there and Napoleon found himself drawn to it for some reason. Perhaps it will clean this murkiness from his mind. “Napoleon.” It rang clear through the mist and Solo’s eyes snapped to it, though it was still a struggle to look at the golden shape. Its edges sharpened and he managed a small noise before it soothed him. Solo could have sang his joy. Even if the rest of his life was this at least he could understand something, even if it was just his own name. “I am going to remove your restraints.” It told him, and he relaxed, giving himself over to it. Surly whatever it was would help him.

Illya reached over the shoulder in front of him and placed a hand at the center of Solo’s chest when he freed his arms, his heart racing at the way the man slumped forward. What did that man do? Illya kept bracing Napoleon as he came to his front, undoing the one leg still bound. The wound on his thigh was much worse than those on his arm, and Illya made note to be careful with it. With Napoleon freed Illya had to decide how to get him out of here. Walking seemed pretty out of the question, as did a fireman’s carry. He didn’t want any undue pressure or stress on Solo’s head or neck. Carefully, Illya slid an arm under Napoleon’s knees, then behind his shoulders, slowly bringing him up so his head rested on Illya’s collar. Satisfied with Napoleon’s position, Illya started out, shooting a dark look at the dead man he left in the walkway, almost wishing he had drawn out the man’s death to punish him for hurting Napoleon, for tampering with what did not belong to him. Gaby would agree, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Illya needed to get Napoleon to a doctor, then Gaby and he could hunt down Berger and make him pay double for what he ordered to happen. Out of every vile thing that man has done, this is the one he would most regret, Illya would make sure of it.

Illya walked slower than he would have liked, not wanting to jostle Solo, but wasn’t overly worried about that. The compound was empty save a few guards and Solo’s interrogator, all of whom were dead now. Napoleon made a noise, a soft moan, and Illya paused in order to look down at him. Solo’s eyes fluttered, and he looked around, a bit more aware than last time but not by much. “Napoleon?” Illya used his given name due to how well Solo responded to it earlier, though they rarely used it normally. Mostly Gaby or Illya would use it when they were trying to annoy him. Solo looked up to him and smiled, a joyous sight compared to his listlessness not minutes earlier.

“Illya.” He said in a tired voice. He then looked a bit confused. “Where are we?” He placed his head back down on Illya’s chest, distantly aware he needed to save his energy.

Illya placed a small kiss on his head, and started walking again. “On Berger’s property. Gaby is waiting for us. Try to stay awake, Cowboy.”

Napoleon licked his lips, looking nervous. “When did we get here?”

Illya felt a small spark of panic light up in his chest, quickly tamped down by the knowledge that memory loss was a symptom of concussion. The fact he was responding so well was more important than amnesia. “You broke in a few hours ago to retrieve the files you were tasked to find. You were captured. It is all fine, don’t worry.” He didn’t want Napoleon to get agitated. The only thing worse than a seriously injured person was one that was also panicking.

Solo closed his eyes, feeling fatigue tug at him once again. “I remember a safe in a desk.” Napoleon trailed off.

“No, no, no.” Illya stopped again, despite the fact he could see the car Gaby found just ahead. “Napoleon. Cowboy, look at me.” He very carefully shook Solo’s upper body.

Napoleon groaned but did as was asked, slitting his eyes open. “I’m tired, Peril.” It wasn’t very often Napoleon sounded so small. Illya couldn’t really remember the last time, actually. It scared him a bit.

“I know, Cowboy, but Gaby wishes to speak to you. She’s just up there. You mustn’t fall asleep before we get to her, yes?” He started a quicker pace, hurrying as fast he could without hurting Napoleon. They finally got to the car and Gaby got out to meet them, worry written all over her face.

“What happened?” She demanded, opening the door to the back seat.

“I think he was beaten. He seems to have a concussion.” He placed Napoleon in the bench seat, sliding in behind him, carefully arranging them so Solo was supported by his body, curled up between his legs and resting on his chest, with no unnecessary pressure on his his cut up arm and leg .

Gaby got in the front seat and looked back at them, bracing herself so she could lean towards them. "Solo?" She asked, reaching out to touch his face.

Napoleon was happy Illya was here. He'd keep him safe. Maybe then he could sleep. No, no, he had to stay awake. Gaby wanted to speak to him. In fact, he thinks he just heard her through the haze still shadowing him. “Gaby?” He asked, lifting his head a bit. When had he stopped moving? Staying awake was using up more of his attention than he thought. He was able to strain his eyes enough to see her face, beautiful as always, though now creased with worry despite the reassuring smile she was trying to put on. He smiled up at her, trying to assuage her fears. He was fine, would be even better once he slept. “Hello, Gaby.” He said in a small voice.

She placed her palm on his jaw, stroking her thumb back and forth. Napoleon hummed happily, relaxing into Illya, who was stroking his flank with one broad hand. “I don’t like this. He’s...limp. We need to get him a doctor.” Illya said, looking up at Gaby sharply.

She nodded. “Then, we will gut Berger.” With that she turned and sat, starting the car. They set off slower than they normally would, but Gaby, like Illya, was overly aware that the less stress Napoleon experienced now the better. She drove fast and smooth, rushing toward the nearest town.

Illya felt Napoleon’s breathing deepen and shook him slightly. “Wake up, Cowboy. You cannot sleep yet, please.” Napoleon let out an especially pathetic noise.

“Why not?” He rolled his head, trying to see out of the back window. Where were they?

“Because I ask very nicely. You said you must encourage any acts of decency in me, now is such a time. I wish to practice my social skills.” He was trying to pull a chuckle out of Napoleon, as his bad jokes usually do, but all he got was a tired sigh.

Gaby spoke up now from the front. “Tell us about your favorite artist, Napoleon. Your favorite safe. Anything.”

Napoleon felt a staticy frustration fizz under his skin. Why won’t they leave him be? He lets them sleep on planes and in cars all the time. “I don’t want to talk. I’m tired.” He said, anger evident in his voice.

Illya curled closer around him, the hand not petting his side coming up to cradle his head. “Don’t be angry, Cowboy. Relax.”

Napoleon, to his complete embarrassment, felt tears prick his eyes. “How can I relax? You won’t let me sleep, I hurt like I was run over, and I have no idea where we are.” His breathing was picking up.

Illya nuzzled into his hairline, careful to steer clear of the large contusion. He shushed him. “We are in a car in the French countryside. Gaby is taking us to a doctor that will give you something for pain. Everything is fine.” Napoleon tried to calm down. He felt so strange. He shifted, restless yet exhausted. Illya tried his best to keep him calm, knowing this agitation was normal.

Finally they pulled up outside the hospital. Gaby jumped out of the car and opened the door for Illya who slid out then leaned back in, gathering Napoleon back into his arms. Satisfied with that Gaby hurried ahead, directly to the counter. “ _My friend_ ,” she said, in broken French, to the triage nurse who came up to her, “ _he is hurt. His head was hit, very hard. Please_.” The nurse nodded and hurried around the counter, shouting for a gurney. When it was brought up Illya had made it inside, looking slightly reluctant to let Napoleon go.

“Français?” The nurse asked Illya. He shook his head. “English?” Illya nodded. “Put him here. I will get the doctor.” She pointed to the gurney and rushed off.

Illya carefully laid Napoleon down. The man looked around lazily. “Is….this the hospital?” Napoleon asked, trying to keep up with the situation, trying to remember.

Illya nodded, adjusting Napoleon so he was lying flat. “Yes, Cowboy.” Gaby stood next to him, one hand resting on top of Napoleon’s.

The doctor came up to them, taking a small pin light out, shining it in Napoleon’s eyes. “Hello, sir, can you tell me your name?”

Napoleon blinked. “Napoleon Solo.” The doctor looked up at Illya and Gaby for confirmation. At their nod he continued.

“Okay, Napoleon. Can you tell me what happened?” Napoleon licked his lips, not responding immediately. “Napoleon?” The doctor asked again.

“I- I was hit. A man beat me. He had some sort of glove with weights in it. I also fell onto the floor and hit my head again.” He blinked, looking confused. “No….he hit me again and then I fell…” He looked up at the doctor. “I can’t remember why.” His eyes shone with unshed tears. He was starting to panic again.

The doctor patted his shoulder. “That’s fine. That was perfect, Napoleon. Is it this side of your head the one that was hit?” He pointed at Napoleon’s left side of his skull.

“Yes. I also have cuts, I think.” He tried to sit up, and was stopped by the doctor’s hand.

“Yes, I see those. I’ll make sure they’re taken care of. Can you tell me what year it is?”

Napoleon thought for a moment. “1965.”

The doctor nodded. “Very good. Thank you. Right now, my nurses are going to take you back and start cleaning some of these wounds. I’m sorry to say it will sting. I will join you again in a moment.” When his gurney moved Napoleon’s hand shot up and gripped Gaby’s, worry evident on his face.

Gaby shushed him, brushing the hair off his brow. “We will be right here, Solo.” Illya reached over and squeezed Napoleon’s shoulder as well. Napoleon released Gaby and was wheeled away. The doctor turned to them.

“Who did these terrible things?” He asked, then shook his head. “Nevermind. I don’t need to know. Do you have any idea what else was done to him?”

Illya shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. We did not find him until his attacker fled. Is he alright?”

The doctor shook his head. “No. He has a concussion. I can’t quite tell how bad it is. Did he suffer from any seizures?” They shook their heads. “Then there shouldn’t be any major brain swelling, though I am keeping him overnight, at least, to make sure of that. His pupils were sluggish and he seems to be having problems focusing. He is also, I’m guessing, acting overly emotional.” They nodded. “This is all indicative of head injury. I would like to run more tests, including a few cognitive ones, but if he continues to have no seizures or major changes in response he should be alright. Should be.” He stressed. “Head injuries are strange things. Don’t assume anything, this early on.” The doctor sighed and looked at them, thinking a moment. “He will more than likely stay calm if he recognizes the people around him. I usually wouldn’t ask this, especially of a young lady who is not a trained nurse, but would you like to stay with him?”

“Yes.” Gaby said, answering for them both. They followed the doctor back and hovered near the door where he placed them, out of the way of the people coming in and out with bandages and salves. The doctor spoke in low tones with an older nurse who was cleaning the cuts on Napoleon’s arm. Napoleon’s shirt was completely gone now, as were his pants, his boxers the only thing covering him. Napoleon seemed to be far away, not responding to the stinging antiseptic. The doctor then turns his attention to Napoleon and speaks to him softly, asking a few more questions about his mental state and pain level. Napoleon is given morphine before his leg is sewn up, the long, deep cut needing stitches. About halfway through the suturing Napoleon starts to squirm, huffing panicked little breaths at the odd sensation. Gaby hurries to his bedside, aware of Illya looming just behind her, shooting a quick look at the doctor to make sure this is alright.

She places a soothing hand on Napoleon’s good arm. “Calm down, liebling, you are safe.

Napoleon’s mind was even more sluggish now, but this was different. This was the telltale feeling of an opioid. Napoleon hated those. They made him feel far away from himself, and he always nodded off when on them. The doctor told him they were going to sew up his leg, and he thought he was going to be alright, but with each new stitch he felt ready to kick out and throw off the doctor. He wanted everyone to stop touching him. Before he could do it Gaby, and he was guessing Illya, came to his side. He felt the white noise in his head recede a bit. He sighed and sank into the bed, feeling the fight slip out of him. His eyes fluttered shut and he tried to relax.

By the time he was stitched up and wheeled to a recovery room Napoleon was fast asleep, the doctor assuring Gaby and Illya he was in no danger. If he didn’t wake when roused, however, there would be something major to worry about. Gaby settled in a chair on Napoleon’s right, frowning at his pale face quickly coloring with bruises. She then looked up at Illya, looming on Napoleon’s left, his face showing deep concern and barely concealed boiling rage. He wanted nothing more than to tear this building apart, and a few others for good measure, but knew that would do no good right now, and squashed the impulse. “He will be alright, Illyusha.” She said quietly.

He shook his head. “He might not be. What if his brain swells, or he gets an infection, or slips into coma?” Illya’s hand gripped his bicep hard where his arms were crossed.

Gaby sighed. “You mustn’t think that way. Tomorrow morning he will be transferred to a hospital in Paris. Waverley has a very good neurologist waiting for us. Napoleon will be cared for, Illyusha, you must calm yourself.” She asked pleadingly.

Illya let out an explosive sigh and closed his eyes for a moment, bringing up one hand to rub at them. He let his arms drop to his sides and Gaby’s heart clenched at the yearning so clear in his eyes, in his body language. To Gaby at least. Illya was quite easy to read once you got to know him. She knows he wants to hold Napoleon, gather him up and shield him from the world. He gets that way whenever either of them get hurt. If Napoleon were awake he would be cooing over at Illya, getting him to blush at his reserved show of affection. God how Gaby wished Napoleon were awake. Just for a moment, just to assure them. He was quite good at that, smooth talker that he was. For someone so dramatic you would expect him to be sensitive to injury, and indeed he was, but only for very minor things. He would whine for hours if he stubbed his toe, but would brush off bullet wounds like they were paper cuts. It was comforting, though, to hear him chatting away despite wounds. It meant he was alright, that he was still himself. This, however, was awful. Only rarely was he knocked out like this, and this was the first time it was due to injury and not medication, in the time they had been working together. Gaby wanted to go poke him awake, like she used to do as a child when her cat would nap and she thought maybe she had died somehow. Napoleon very rarely was still like this. He liked to lounge about, but this dead stillness was unnatural for him.

Gaby finally convinced Illya to settle in the other chair pulled into the room by the nurses, which Illya placed on Napoleon’s other side. Gaby settled back and tried to read a paperback a nurse found for her, but it was in French, and she could read it only incrementally better than she could speak it, so she closed it and held it out to Illya, who raised an eyebrow at her but took it, flipping through it himself. He knew French quite well, but told the nurse English earlier for Napoleon’s sake. Head injuries and translating often didn’t go hand in hand very well. He amused himself with that while Gaby dozed, the adrenaline starting to wear off. A little while later Gaby twitched awake at a gentle knocking at the door. She looked over and the doctor shuffled in.

“Has he awoken?” He asked in a quiet voice. At Illya’s head shake he approached the bed, sliding around Gaby at standing at Napoleon’s shoulder. He placed a gentle hand on his undamaged arm, still careful of the bruising starting to show up everywhere. He shook Napoleon lightly. “Mr. Solo? Can you open your eyes for me?” After a little more quiet rousing Napoleon’s eyes blinked open, and a weight Gaby hadn’t realized had descended lifted from her chest. “There you are. Follow my finger, please.” He moved it smoothly in front of Napoleon’s face, first back and forth, then up and down. Napoleon’s eyes tracked it attentively. The doctor smiled at him, leaning back a bit. “How do you feel Mr. Solo?” Gaby realized she was smiling too, and a quick glance at Illya found him perched at the front of his seat, focused entirely on Napoleon’s face.

Napoleon blinked a few times more, then licked his lips. “Like I was thrown off a building.” His head lolled to the side and he caught sight of Gaby, and managed a weak grin at her. “Good thing I have such caring friends.” He shifted in bed and his breath caught.

The doctor hovered his hand over Napoleon’s chest. “I think it would be best that you tried to stay as still as possible. Your next round of morphine will be in an hour or so. No need to test its limits quite yet.” A wry smile creased his face. “And I would say you are the luckiest man in all of France, tonight.” He checked a few more things and shuffled back out of the room, closing the door quietly.

Napoleon continued to look at Gaby, finally bringing his right hand up and gesturing towards himself. “Come and see me, Gaby.”

Gaby stood and came to stand where the doctor just vacated, placing a soft hand on Napoleon’s shoulder. “You can sleep now, liebling. No need to stay awake for our sake.”

Napoleon chucked hoarsely. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I can spare a few more minutes of my time. Now, where’s that Russian of ours?” Napoleon’s head lolled the other direction and a soft smile spread across his mouth when he caught sight of him attempting to lurk in the shadows. He held his hand out to him and Illya was already sliding up and forward to his bedside, folding his hands around Napoleon’s. “There you are. I though perhaps you were raining vengeance down upon some unsuspecting village or the like. But no, my любовник wouldn’t leave for war without giving me some token to remember him by first.” Napoleon went on for a bit, murmuring more teasing words while Illya bent down and cradled his hand between his own, pressing a small kiss on his knuckles and then stroking it with one long finger while looking down at him thoughtfully, rumbling a hum here and there in reply to Napoleon’s words. Gaby smiled at them. Napoleon knew Illya needed reassurance right now.

She huffed comically, drawing a small grin from Illya. “Hopeless romantics, the both of you. You’re lucky I have the patience of a saint.” She flicked her ponytail over her shoulder.

Napoleon laughed. “I believe I was just crowned the luckiest man in France. By a doctor, no less.”

“Must be true.” Illya drawled, still petting Napoleon’s hand idly. Gaby laughed.

“And besides, even without such patience, you are worth the world, sweet Gaby.” Napoleon said quietly, obviously fighting off the pull of sleep.

Gaby patted his shoulder lightly. “I know. Now, sleep for pity’s sake. How are we supposed to plan terrible things while you are in such a delicate state? It would be unprofessional at the very least.”

“Very well, I’ll doze off and leave you children to your malicious scheming.” Napoleon settled back into his pillows, closing his eyes, leaving Illya holding his hand aloft, seemingly happy with where it was.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone wondering, yes, Amable's name does mean something, and that is "lovable," I really enjoy some irony when I name random people.


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